Reap What We Do
by mutemockingjay
Summary: "It was only an apple!" But in District 11, that is never the case. Dark on Fire companion oneshot.


**A/N: I am doing a LJ challenge called Taming the Muse, where you write something new every week based on their prompt. I will probably compile the majority of these into a multi-chap, however this one will be relevant to understand Maine better in future Dark on Fire chapters. In Red vs Blue canon, Sigma was Maine's AI, and they had a close bond I wanted to represent in a new way here.  
**

**Much thanks to the talented agent_florida for beta'ing this. Title comes from "Re-Education (Through Labor)" by Rise Against.  
**

* * *

Grabbed by the collar of his shirt, slammed into the ground so hard the back of his head ached. A hiss in his ear. "You thought you could get away with it, didn't you?"

When the twelve-year-old didn't respond, the looming figure tightened their grip, slamming the boy's head into the hard packed earth once again. "Didn't you?" He raised his voice, and the boy made some sort of strangled reply, unintelligible.

"Get up." The Peacekeeper released the boy and wiped his hands on an immaculate white handkerchief in his pocket, as if he couldn't stand to touch the boy a second longer.

Still, the boy did not move, and the Peacekeeper prodded him with the tip of his spit shined boot. "Get up. Now."

The boy scrambled to his feet, and immediately his hands were tied together behind his back with a length of rope that bit into the delicate skin on the underside of his wrist.

"What's your name, boy?"

The boy wet his chapped lips, his voice a whisper. "Maine, sir." Maine hung his head, focusing on his scuffed shoes.

"Speak up." The Peacekeeper reached toward Maine, and with the gentlest of touches, raised Maine's chin up so that he could meet the teenager's eyes.

"Maine, _sir_." Maine tried to make his voice rougher, stronger, to keep the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes from falling. There was no way he was going to cry in front of this prick. So instead he stared straight into the Peacekeeper's manic blue eyes, standing up to his full height.

"I wouldn't suggest taking that tone with me." A sinister smile, and the butt of his gun was shoved into Maine's back. "Now get moving."

Maine did as he was told, the eyes of everyone else in town mysteriously averted as he passed by them. Friends from school, people he worked with in the orchards were suddenly unaware of anyone named Maine. Even Sigma wouldn't look him at straightforwardly, her brown hair hiding those wide, dark eyes of hers.

The square, always run down and pathetic looking with its crumbling storefronts and ghostly proprietors, had never been a pleasant place to be. And with the stocks, whipping post and gallows in the center for all to see, it was a place Maine wanted to avoid at all costs. He had been forced to watch punishments here too many times to count; he knew exactly what he was in for.

But knowing didn't make it any easier.

The Peacekeeper's callused hand came down upon Maine's back with a force so powerful Maine gasped a little.

"On your knees," he said, untying the rope that bound Maine's wrists. "And shirt off."

Maine swallowed, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something he would regret. Because oh how he wanted to speak—to tell this over-arrogant brute where to stick his gun, to the people in the square and their cowardice. And especially Sigma.

Sig, his best friend. Quirky, funny, crazy Sig, who always made work at least a little brighter. Sigma, who had held his hand when he needed it, or punched him in the face when he needed that, too. And now she said nothing, did nothing except cover her mouth and wipe at her face with the sleeves of her tattered cardigan. He knew he shouldn't blame her. That if she tried to stop this, she would end up in his place, or worse.

But that didn't mean he hated it any less. Hated all of it. And every single person who made this possible, from the Capitol to the rebels in the Dark Days, and those victors. The victors who stayed back in their cozy houses and were so filthy stinking rich it made him want to vomit.

He wasn't sure how he managed to get his shirt off. His arms tingled and felt numb and out of control, they way they did sometimes if he slept for a long time on top of them.

"State your crime."

_There was no crime_.

"I took an apple from the orchard."

_Because you give us nothing, and my mother is sick. What else was I supposed to do?_

A rap on the back of his neck with the whip. "You did not take it."

Maine sighed. "Yes, I _stole_ an apple from the orchard." His body sagged a little, his knees already beginning to ache. Weak and dizzy from lack of food it became an effort to even hold his head up.

"And," The Peacekeeper lifted Maine's chin up with the end of the whip. "Stealing is punishable by death."He waited for the words to sink as he knew they would; Maine could see the cruel joy in his eyes, anticipating Maine's reaction to this.

But Maine didn't show it—no, he wouldn't show it. Not to him. He didn't deserve it. So even though on the inside he was breaking, he forced himself to stay still. To keep his body from trembling, keep himself from crying. And, really, some part of him knew he would never live long. Not here. It was near impossible in District 11 to make it to old age. Either the hunger got you, or the Peacekeepers, or the Games. So, really, a hanging would be a more merciful death than wasting away, or whatever gruesome end could await him in the arena.

"However…" The Peacekeeper said, tracing Maine's shoulders with the tip of the whip, "I believe for a first offense there can be room for a little mercy. Twenty-five should be sufficient. If you count. But if you lose track…" The Peacekeeper drew his arm back, and Maine tensed, preparing himself for the blow.

But nothing in the world could have prepared him for the pain. The coiled leather burned into his skin—it was less than a second but it was the worse second he had ever had in all of his twelve years. He gave a strangled howl, something inhuman. He wasn't sure how he managed to pull himself together enough to croak out a "one" but he did, and the whip came down upon his back again, tearing into the flesh without abandon.

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

He wanted to keep his dignity. To not give in, to keep the Peacekeeper from getting the satisfaction of absolute power. But he couldn't. The tears spilled over and he began to sob. It was weakness; he was too weak. Maybe the other boys could take it, but all Maine wanted was to be far away. To be next to his mother. Not the way she was now, so emaciated and ill. But the mother who had sung him to sleep when he had measles, or who danced in the kitchen when she tried and put away the dishes.

"Five."

"Six."

"Seven."

"Eight."

The blood was pouring down his back, pooling onto his pants, dripping onto the wood platform he kneeled upon. He stared at it, almost in fascination, as if it weren't his own. Something else, making splatters in strange designs.

"Nine."

"Ten."

"Eleven."

"Twelve."

Maine's vision was beginning to darken at the edges, his head spinning. His eyelids were heavy, and it was so tempting to close them, to just give in to the sweet world of unconsciousness…

He didn't realize he had actually passed out until the bucket of ice cold water hit him straight in the face and he attempted to straighten his back in response. That, however, was not only impossible but any movement threatened to split the raw slab of skin that was his back.

"Now isn't that a shame." The Peacekeeper kicked him in the stomach so hard that Maine had to fight to keep down what little had for breakfast that morning. "Start over. From the beginning."

Sputtering, Maine didn't even bother readying himself for the blow. No matter what he did, the result would just be the same, only getting worse with each lash. He didn't know how much time passed by the time he got to the end, nor how he even managed to count all the way up to twenty-five and still stay awake. But he did, and the Peacekeeper untied his bonds. Maine's wrists were chapped and bleeding, and his palms hit the platform. His body had sagged and given in completely and he lay flat on his belly, unable to move without unleashing a new wave of agony.

"Get up, and get out of my sight, vermin." The Peacekeeper wiped the congealed blood off his whip with that handkerchief and rolled it up, tucking it into his belt.

Those shiny boots disappeared out of Maine's sight, and he could their owner whistling a tune he found to be vaguely familiar. A piece of music he had only heard once, something his father called "Beethoven's 5th."

_Get up. Get up and walk. You can do this. Or else…_

Maine tried to push himself up, but his arms, weak and shaking, would not obey, and he collapsed again. The last thing he saw was a small pair of tattered black shoes. He could vaguely feel someone holding his hand, and then, nothing at all.

* * *

"Sigma! Don't you dare take that tone with me, young lady!"

"But Mama…"

"But nothing. You've done all you can for him."

"It's not enough. It can never be enough."

The snippets of conversation brought him back into reality, and when he opened his eyes he saw he was one of the small wooden shacks belonging to the orchard workers. The room was darkened but everything slid in and out of focus, white swirls at the corners of his vision.

He could hear a pair of heavy footsteps retreating, and a door slamming, while a pair of lighter ones approached him.

"Maine?"

Wide dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, and messy brown hair overtook everything else. He couldn't fight the smallest of smiles when she took her tiny, delicate hands in his large, callused ones.

He wanted to say something, but his throat was tight and dry, and all he could manage to do was lick his chapped, cracked lips.

"Here, drink this." She held a small mug to his lips, and he gulped the water greedily. It was strangely sweet, almost sickening. Sleep syrup. Of course.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"I gathered what I could to help with the pain, and the healer came by to help bandage you up." Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she let go of his hand. "I'm sorry," she muttered, turning away from him. "I'm sorry I couldn't…"

" 'S…'s…" His eyelids were getting heavy again, the sleep syrup having its desired effect.

The last thing he saw was Sig's wicked grin, the light she got in her eyes when she thought up one scheme or another. And her voice, "But it seems there are a lot of tracker jacker nests that just seem to be _mysteriously_ falling from the trees…"

Then her lips pressed against his, briefly, before she disappeared out of his sight completely. Somehow, and he didn't know how, she had managed to taste like apples.


End file.
